


Cross Pollination

by allochthonous (cynicalshoes)



Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalshoes/pseuds/allochthonous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are spores, and then there are spores. Connor has a run-in with the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cross Pollination

People have been looking at Connor strangely. More than usual, he thought, and he had no idea why. He's not wearing his Tom Baker t-shirt, he's not humming the _Gundam Wing_ theme song and he hasn't even quoted _Star Wars_ yet today. He's done all three (at once, mind you), and attracted less attention than he is right now. Today he's back from the Devonian less than five minutes, and already he's received sidelong glances from every single person at the ARC. Not to mention he had the distinct feeling that half of them were staring at his arse.

And, alright, he did _feel_ a little strange, a bit... warm and sticky, maybe, but he put that down to a few hours spent herding a pack of hapless _Icthiostega_ from a newly adopted sewer-tunnel home back to their own humid past-Earth. Oh, and that puddle he slipped in... and that large, leafy plant he walked into. But he was mostly dry now. No reason for everyone to stare.

Lester, on the other hand, hadn't really done anything. He had hardly spoken, in fact. Congratulated the team for returning successfully without mucking up the timeline completely, taken one look at Connor, and disappeared back into his office, nearly slamming the door.

At least _he_ was behaving normally.

Connor turned to look at the team, to ask if they had noticed anything strange. But Danny and Becker had disappeared; he thought he could hear their footfalls ringing down the hall towards the locker room. Maybe they really needed the loo. He turned to Abby, ready to laugh it off, and--wait, was she licking her lips? And now she was definitely staring. And not as his arse.

Connor muttered something about his report, and took off for his lab. He was starting to feel a definite paranoid itch.

It continued on the drive home. Now, he and Lester hadn't exactly _done_ anything yet, but they'd been dancing around something for the past while in a way that made Connor dizzy. And Connor may have jerked off in the shower a few times to the vision that it was Lester's hand on his cock instead of his own, which made eating breakfast next to the man just a bit more awkward than usual. Of course he couldn't speak for Lester, but somehow Connor had a feeling that his flatmate didn't hate him quite so much anymore. But now Lester was giving him the complete cold shoulder treatment, which Connor would have thought impossible when both parties are sitting two feet apart in a rather nice Lexus.

Every few minutes Lester would glance at him and scowl, and roll the windows down another inch. And this was no stuffy summer's day. A cold breeze whipped through the car, tugging at Connor's hair and stinging his eyes. Connor had to admit it was nice though, once you got over the passive-aggressive threat of hypothermia, as he was still feeling a bit over-warm. All that running, he supposed. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

They made it to Lester's flat in record time (wait, had Lester been _speeding_?), but it was long enough for Connor to decide that the first thing he should do was apologize, once the wind whistling through the windows died down and he could hear himself speak. He wasn't sure what he was apologising for, exactly, but maybe Lester would fill that part in. It was the thought that counted, right?

They streaked into the underground car park of Lester's building. Connor was grateful that it was deserted at this time of day, most of the tenants off playing squash or dining in expensive French-sounding restaurants, or whatever it was the moderately rich did in the late afternoon-going-into-early-evening hour. He didn't want an audience for his planned bout of grovelling.

Before Connor could even open his mouth to make a sincere but non-specific apology, Lester had turned off the ignition and practically leapt out of the car. The windows were still wide open, and Connor was going to helpfully point this out, too, once he had re-equilibrated from the sudden change of acceleration.

He staggered out of the car, by now wondering if he was running a low fever. He could feel his shirt clinging to his back, drenched in sweat.

"Uh, Lester?" he asked, and apparently this fever was doing something to his voice because it was definitely _not_ supposed to be that high and wavering.

"Bloody hell, Connor!" Lester yelled, and now _his_ voice sounded strained. Connor could see beads of sweat running from Lester's temple.

That reminded Connor all over again of how warm he was in all these clothes. Why was he so hot? And what was he about to say? Something about windows? A cool breeze would be nice right around now.

Still, there was no reason to yell, he thought defensively. Almost said it, too. Was his mind wandering more than usual? Was it the heat? Something wasn't right.

Oh, no. Maybe he had brought some kind of prehistoric pathogen back from the Devonian, maybe he had made them both sick. Shit. And the others?

Lester apparently thought this was a feasible possibility as well. He seemed angry enough. His eyes were bright and feverish, and he was pacing next to the car, tugging at his tie.

"Lester?" Connor squeaked again, but his eyes were drawn to Lester's fingers working impatiently at the knot of his tie. And then Connor had the uncomfortable and seriously ill-timed realization that he was hard. Achingly so. Had he missed that somehow? And really, if it was all the same, he'd rather take care of that problem first, in private, and _then_ get yelled at.

Unless Lester... no. Probably not in the mood.

"I'm just going to--"

Lester stopped in his tracks, spinning to face Connor. What he had thought was simply anger now looked a lot more like some intense inner battle of wills raging in Lester's conscience. With a good amount of anger thrown in.

"Don't. You. Move." Lester ground out through clenched teeth. He began to stalk around the vehicle to Connor's side of the car. Connor backed up a step, instinctively.

Lester's pupils were blown wide, and he was walking a little stiffly, and--

Oh. _Oh_.

Connor felt his cock twitch in his pants, just in case his brain hadn't quite caught up yet. _Nope, thanks buddy, got the message_.

Lester seemed just as keen to skip the pleasantries. Connor had never been quite sure about that phrase, what exactly _were_ pleasantries, anyway? It didn't matter too much right now, though, because Lester was kissing him with what Connor was pretty sure could be accurately described as 'abandon', one hand tight around the back of Connor's neck and his whole body pressing Connor against the solid support of the car.

Which was fine, which was more than fine. In the space of a second every square inch of Connor's skin was on fire, thrumming with energy, itching for some kind of stimulation, anything. All those innocuous symptoms had coalesced into a single disease, and the only thing flowing through his veins was mindless need. Like the flip of a switch he had gone from uncomfortably warm to unbearably so; it felt like sweat was pouring off him, drenching his clothes. Lester seemed to be about in the same shape.

He should probably help.

Connor tugged blindly at Lester's tie even as Lester apparently attempted to devour him whole. His hands fumbled with buttons and zips, got caught up with Lester's doing the exact same thing.

And then he had very little opportunity to help at all, because Lester had spun him around and pushed him over the bonnet, shoving his trousers and pants roughly down his hips.

Fuck. Yes, now please.

Did he say that out loud?

"Fuck, Connor--"

And that didn't sound a bit like Lester, because that was broken and cracked and so _consumed_. And Lester hardly ever cursed. Connor had never heard him like that before, not around the flat, not at work, not even when Connor had lined Sid and Nancy's bed with an old woolly jumper that turned out to be a hand-knit Cowichan sweater. God, he hoped he heard it again.

Connor rocked against the side of the car, the smooth metal giving him nothing in the way of relief. He whined, yes, whined, because he was as hard as he'd ever been in his life and he couldn't--

Connor heard the smack before he felt it. Then his brain registered a million things at once, mostly 'fuck, yes' and 'again'. Who knew. Lester's hand hovered above Connor's shivering skin, and the other worked to hike up Connor's jacket and shirt, exposing more of that skin to the cool, tense air.

Connor found himself inching his feet further apart, lifting his arse higher. He was still too hot, already too close to the edge but with no way to make that final step. There was no time to feel embarrassed, to think about the sounds he was making or the way he bobbed his arse in the air, desperate. It was just the heat above and cold below, his leaking, aching cock and the fear that there would _never_ be enough friction to bring him to completion.

And then Lester moved away. Connor moaned at the loss of contact, edged his arse higher still, as if that would recapture Lester's attention and draw him back. He needed Lester's hands on him, he needed Lester _in_ him. He turned his head to see Lester (looking debauched, really, and Connor could be proud of that) reach in the open window and fumble for something in the glove compartment.

Connor straightened his neck and looked away, panic abated. Right, lube. Lester kept hand moisturizer in the car. One of them was thinking.

He tried not to. Just tried to focus on not rutting away against the side of the car, of not coming right then and there.

It became doubly hard when he felt Lester's hand on his arse again. He twitched at the contact, pushing back instantly. The hand just rested there, covering what Connor was sure was the red-lined imprint of that last slap, because that's how it felt, like a brand on his skin.

He whined again. One more, he needed--

"Please, Lester, again--"

Instantly the hand came down again, over the exact same spot, and Connor bit down on the bunched up ends of his own shirt sleeve, but still the muffled scream escaped.

Then he felt a cold, wet finger slide down the other cheek, a counterpoint against the heat that was still pouring off him. Then the finger trailed down his crack, and Connor didn't have time to prepare for much at all, because now Lester was pushing inside him, working him open as Connor rocked back against his hand.

He really hoped this garage was empty.

Connor was fairly sure (although admittedly not an expert in these things) that most normal guidelines would suggest a little more preparation. A second finger, for example. But Connor was equally sure he wouldn't last for two fingers and he needed--right now--

"Now, Lester, c'mon--"

Lester seemed to agree. His finger slipped out and within a second Connor could feel the head of Lester's cock at his entrance. Connor braced his arms on the bonnet and took it upon himself to push backwards, and he felt the hands on his waist tighten, until Lester was buried deep.

He couldn't see the way Lester's legs were shaking, his knees locked, but he could feel it.

There was one long, shaky exhale, (or were there two?), and Lester asked,"Okay?" and Connor nodded in frantic reassurance, pushing backwards again, until finally Lester started to move, and Connor could have cried out with relief. Maybe he did. Every stroke, splitting him open, pushing deeper.

The itch hadn't stopped. It had intensified, and all it said now was _more_.

So that's what Connor said, too.

He heard Lester growl, _growl_. One of the hands on Connor's hip tightened further, the other slid to the small of his back and held him steady as they stuttered into some semblance of rhythm. Every point of contact between them seemed to be a conduit where the heat flowed out of Connor's body, where he felt the burn of Lester's.

Connor spread his legs further still, his sweaty hands slipping on the metal of the car. He pushed back on every thrust, desperately looking for that friction, the pressure building, dancing below his threshold. Lester's hand snaked around to stroke Connor's cock sharply in time with his thrusts, and it was all Connor could do to stay on his feet, anchored only by Lester's cock in his arse and the hand on his back. Maybe if he angled his hips--

He was sure the moaning was indecent now, film-worthy even, as with every thrust Lester hit his prostate, each time slamming deeper, claiming him more and more, even as their rhythm unravelled. Connor was sure the hand on his cock was pretty much the best thing ever, second only to the cock pounding into his arse. It was the lone thought that remained in his brain, the only thing that took the edge off the itch; it consumed him and defined him, until finally, however long it had been, too long and not nearly long enough, the pleasure crested, and washed over him.

It spread out down his limbs, to every finger and toe, and seemed to ripple back again, up his spine. It radiated over every inch of him, and replaced that painfully acute self-awareness with a feeling of being simply but completely sated.

Lester slowed, shuddering, his hands moving now to pet at Connor's sweat-soaked skin. Lester stilled, buried inside him but now utterly spent, and he flopped down over Connor's back.

Connor felt his skin begin to cool.

For several minutes all they did was breathe, until the gasps and pants descended into something more normal, and Connor's pulse had settled to a rate that was less indicative of recent strenuous exercise.

Slowly he realized that he was cold and sweaty, likely covered in his own come, and that his arse was very, very sore. In a good way. But the most pressing concern was the large weight on top of his lungs.

"Lester?" (He had a feeling this particular escapade didn't quite warrant a 'James' yet.)

He felt the weight above him shift as Lester slowly regained his feet. He pulled out, Connor's aching arse suddenly empty and exposed to the cold.

He heard clothing rustle, but Connor couldn't yet be bothered to move. Not just yet. A return to his usual lung capacity was only the first step.

"What," Lester asked, and his voice was still cracked but closer to normal now,"did you do?"

Connor turned at that, looking over his shoulder. Lester was trying to tuck in his shirt and do up the buttons at the same time, and neither attempt was working. He wasn't sprawled half-naked on a car, though.

"What did I do?" Connor sputtered. Had Lester forgot whose cock had been in whose arse already? Wasn't there a tango analogy that was applicable here?

Lester had regained a fair bit of composure by now. Unfairly so, Connor thought. But he still had no idea how to even _begin_ to answer that question, and he didn't think Lester would look too kindly on him if he used tango as an argument. He said nothing.

"You return from the Devonian," Lester continued,"practically _dripping_ with musk--"

Wait, musk?

"--Quinn and Captain Becker scarper off in a less-than-subtle fashion and Miss Maitland eyes you up like a cut of meat. Something must have occurred on the other side of the anomaly, and its effects were transferred, through you, to the present--"

"Could you go back to that part about--"

"--And you're the only member of the team who would manage to disturb some kind of powerful prehistoric pheromone, if I were to hazard a guess, given its effects, and stay completely oblivious."

Connor frowned. Somehow that made perfect sense. But there seemed to be an awful lot of blame heading in one particular direction. Maybe he _should_ remind Lester about whose cock in whose arse?

But Lester had extended an arm to help him to his feet, where he swayed for a moment, the blood rushing back to those other poor neglected body parts. The hand on his shoulder didn't move until Connor felt the horizon had fully settled.

Lester was properly presentable now, and it made Connor even more self-conscious. He hiked his pants and trousers up in one, hissing as the fabric passed over the double-imprint on his sore arse.

Lester raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and Connor felt an entirely different kind of heat wash over his skin. He looked away to deal with the very complicated business that were his buttons. Damn, buttons required a lot of attention.

After a moment he felt Lester tug on his sleeve, centering the shirt across his shoulders and straightening the collar. He looked up. Lester seemed... at ease. Calm. Content, if Connor could be so bold.

As if a pheromone-induced shag was no big deal. What if it wasn't? Is that what Lester thought? Given their obviously altered states, would Lester put it down to the coincidence of proximity? Did it have nothing to do with Connor's slightly ridiculous crush and Lester's possibly-warming feelings in return? What did it mean--

"There had better not be anything on my car," Lester said, cutting into Connor's spiraling thoughts. The formal tone was back, almost, but there was something else there. Something for Connor.

Lester spun on his heel and set off in the direction of the lifts. Connor turned around to check. Ew. There was.

He heard Lester's voice ring out from across the garage, echoing against the concrete floor and ceiling.

"Have a shower when you get up," he said, and Connor's brow immediately furrowed in confusion and disappointment. What did--

"We'll be washing the sheets regardless, but I do value good personal hygiene. And if you hurry..."

One swipe with his sleeve got the most of it, although Connor almost ripped the whole arm off in his haste. He heard the ding of the lift doors as they opened, and he took off at a run.

Maybe pheromones were a good enough excuse for a frantic shag in the car park, Connor thought, throwing his arm between the closing lift doors to halt their progress. But whatever Lester had in mind for that brazen (well, for Lester) invitation, Connor had a feeling there was no excuse for that.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Primeval characters and universe humbly borrowed for nefarious fannish purposes only.


End file.
